


White-Cotton silence

by BlazeRiddle



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, F/M, M/M, Sherlock is hurt, Sort of happy ending, good ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2015-05-27
Packaged: 2018-04-01 13:37:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4021876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlazeRiddle/pseuds/BlazeRiddle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The noise of loneliness sometimes just becomes too much, especially if the person he wants to be not-lonely with is there with someone else</p>
            </blockquote>





	White-Cotton silence

Two in the morning.

Sherlock sighed tiredly and pulled his pillow over his head to silence the squeaking of the bed above, the muffled groans and soft moans that carried through thin walls and old floors, and tried not to analyze whatever thoughts were whirling around inside his head, his _chest_ , tried to close his eyes and _sleep_ for once.

Her name was Jessica.

When John had brought her to the flat two weeks prior, he had introduced her as _a friend from the clinic_ and he'd had that glint in his eyes he usually saved for when Sherlock had done something exceptional, and it sparked something dark and sick in him that he ignored - he simply informed John of what he saw; the drinking problem, the smoking habit, the removed wedding ring, the possible -probable- child, the lies about her age. John had laughed.

"I know that already, _git_." He had said. "She's a _patient_."

Jessica had just quirked a brow. "He wasn't lying about you." She had drawled, her voice sweet as honey but cold as ice underneath. "You _are_ a bit of an arsehole."

That had stung. Yes, he knew his facade was cold, calculating. He knew people thought _that way_. He _intended_ them to. But not John. Never _John_. John was supposed to like him, John called him a git amicably and yelled at people for calling him a freak. Even punched someone for it, once.

(She _was_ beautiful, though; short, curvy in all the places a _not-gay_ man like John H. Watson would like. Her ex-husband left her enough room to create a D-cup, full lips, a wrinkle-free face, and a barely-there permanent tan that contrasted with her platinum-blonde hair and made her bright green eyes stand out. All in all mostly _His_ type.)

The next time John had gone out with _Jessica,_ he'd stayed out until after twelve and came home to guide her up the stairs and make enthusiastic use of the spring mattress. Which is why Sherlock found himself clutching a pillow over his ears at two in the morning. He _hated_ the sounds, _loathed_ them, despised the way they seemed to carve him open to his very bone.

The solution to his problem nagged at the back of his mind. Blessed, cotton-thick silence. Tranquillity. The endless uncaring of not thinking. But no, he couldn't. He would shiver in the aftermath, come down harshly and then John would _know,_ would see it in his fever, would smell it on his sick breath, and John would _leave_. No doctor could live with an addict in their darkest days. It was a miracle, anyway, that the good Captain hadn't ran for the hills screaming already.

Instead, Sherlock stood and slipped into a pair of impeccable trousers, not bothering with a matching top. As he silently moved to the living, he ignored the urge to torture his beloved violin and shrugged into his heavy coat. Perhaps tobacco and the silence of the night's air would be enough to kill off the _feelings_. John would smell those too, yes, and he would be angry, but he would most likely not leave. He closed the outside door behind him silently, capturing the sounds inside.

#

(Or maybe he _would_ leave; time was running out, after all. Dreams of white-picket fences and one-point-seven children would soon push aside the adrenaline rush of the chases, the excitement of the cases. Eventually, one day very soon, John would be stolen away by one of those _females_ , would lose his interest in it all, would no longer care for running around after a great billowing coat, and Baker Street would be nothing more than a place where he used to live, a shadow in the past. And W. S. S. Holmes would be even less.)

When Sherlock dared to return late that afternoon the apartment smelled of cheap perfume that was meant to imitate Channel's No. 5, but _Janine_ was nowhere in sight. John was sitting in his chair, reading one of those terrible excuses for a mystery novel, but looked up as Sherlock closed the door behind him.

"You look like shit."

"I am aware, thanks." Sherlock moved to the kitchen and busied himself making tea, to not have to read _satisfying yet tiring night_ from his friend's face.

"Make me some, too. Did you even sleep?"

"In case you're unaware, it's hard having the biggest brain in London." _And the tiniest heart. Not mine to keep, though - I held it out and it was taken, and you didn't even realise you have it in your hands._

"I didn't realise you'd visited Mycroft." John quipped. Sherlock couldn't help but smile as he poured boiling water over the teabags. John refused to buy loose leafs, insisted that he wouldn't get it right and that Sherlock should buy those himself, _and while you're at it, get some milk too_ , so they'd to make do with PG Tips. He brought the cup to his friend, who smiled at it, then sniffed the air.

"Tobacco?" He frowned at the detective. "Sherlock, you were doing so well."

"It was only _one._ " Sherlock lied, slumping down in is chair and placing the tea atop of a pile of papers.

" _Sherlock._ "

"Four, then" Sherlock rolled his eyes. It was still a lie, but he wasn't going to tell John he'd needed over ten cigarettes to control the jitters that could only be killed with _that other thing_ , the forbidden fruit, the ultimate not-good-ness.

"Four." John stared at him, then nodded. "Right. If you say so."

"Don't believe me?" Sherlock arched a brow.

John shrugged. "Someone as all-or-nothing as you? I'd expected four _packs_."

Sherlock picked up his tea. "You know me so well." He drawled. "It's almost as if we've met before."

John laughed. The sound pulled on something in his chest.

"Okay, you great git. Thai or Chinese?"

 _You_ , Sherlock thought as he considered burning out his taste buds with the wonders of Indian food, _you are as perfect as the sun about to sink in the west, as bright as if it was still noon. Conductor of light, I could never be more wrong. I'd like you, but I can't have that._

"Thai's fine." He rumbled.

#

It was two weeks later that Sherlock could no longer stand it. The maddening sonata of bedsprings, of groans and moaned names, drove him out of bed and grabbing around under it until his fingers scraped the box.

(John would leave. John would pack his stuff and close the door and leave nothing but silence, but even the lonely silence would be better than this, the sounds of _not-having_ , the screaming accusations on _not good enough,_ the roaring thunder of _not you_. Even the silence would be less torture than this kind of loneliness.)

A needle sinking through skin. A plunger down. Bliss.

_"John..."_

Not enough. Scrambling for another vial, he filled the silencing object again, plunged deeper,

                Deeper,

                                                                              Deeper.

                               Silence, at last.

Blessed, blissful silence.

 

(The universe is supposedly infinite, meaning that if one would take a square inch of the night sky and search its depths infinitely, one would never not find a star. The star closest to the earth is a yellow dwarf with a diameter about one-hundred-and-nine times the one of the earth, weighing two nonillion kilos and making up most of the mass of its system. It gave life and death to the eight-and-a-half planets circling it, to the creatures living upon them. It is so scalding hot that one cannot come close without burning to death. So how is it that all of that, all that life-giving power and life-taking strength, fits in the body of one compact army doctor? How can that sun fit in his bedroom, stand over him, without burning him? How can he be so close and live? John isn't even a yellow dwarf.)

_You're a blue giant. I can come ever closer, but I can never touch, never reach you, without going down in flames._

_Even death would be a bliss compared to this._

#

Antiseptic and powdered gloves.

The beeping of his heart.

Warmth seeping through his skin.

And, as he opened his tired, dry eyes, light. TL-lights mounted somewhere on the ceiling made the room bask in a cold, white glow, reflecting off the same-coloured walls and ceiling, making every shadow hard and dark and eerie, hurting his rod cells. He tried to groan around the tube shoved down his throat and closed his eyes again.

The warmth around his fingers moved.

"Good morning, you great blundering _idiot_." A voice rumbled, warmth tightening around his hand. "Welcome back to life- Sherlock? Open your eyes so I can yell at you."

Sherlock tried. He really did, but everything was just too bright, too much. Something touched his forehead, cast shadows over his eyes. It was easier, now, though he was just looking at John's palm, now. John's palm and John's thunderous face.

"There you are, you _fucking_ moron. What the _hell_ were you thinking?!"

Sherlock frowned. He tried to recall what had happened, but he could just sense the pain, the frustration, and then the bliss. The non-thinking.

John sighed. "Okay. As much as I'd like this to be an one-sided shouting match, I'll wait until you can defend yourself." There was a small smile playing around his eyes as he pulled back. "But you're not rid of me, yet, arsehole. Go back to sleep."

Sherlock did, feeling the darkness overtake him on the rhythm of the beeping machine, of the silent _rub-rub_ of a thumb over the back of his hand.

 

Choking. He felt as if he was throwing up. Panic took him until he found that warmth again, a voice whispering to him, the words less important than the breaths against his wrists. Slowly, he relaxed and let them do whatever it was they were doing. His throat ached, but after a moment the feeling of throwing up disappeared and what was left was what felt like a swollen windpipe and a terrible headache. Also, a straw resting against his lips and his voice murmuring him to _drink a bit for me, good, that's it_ and he drank, because the water was freezing cold and soothing and the praise was curing some ache deep inside him that he didn't know was still there.

"Why?" the kind voice was there again, sad now.

Sherlock frowned, not feeling up to talking yet. John glared at him.

"You nearly OD'd. I found you delirious on our bathroom floor in the middle of the night and if it weren't for your brother, your heart would've stopped." He looked away, seemingly finding the wall _very_ interesting. "You nearly died."

Not knowing what to say, Sherlock turned his hand and squeezed the fingers still laying over his.

"Why, Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked down at the two hands and wondered how impossibility could be so close.

"My mother used to tell me the story of the ugly little duckling. Child is born, hated by everyone. Decides to run away and finds that they are beautiful. Of course, it wasn't until I was seven that I found out that a duckling can't find food on its own. They wouldn't have lived to become a swan."

"The ugly duckling committed suicide?" John retracted his hand. "What are you trying to say? They did it, so you should try it, too?"

"No, I-"

"You thought you could just- what? Give up, and leave me there? What the _hell_ \- Why?"

"The little duckling couldn't stand the sound of the other animals mocking them anymore." Sherlock set his jaw. "Whatever my reason- does it matter?"

"Yes!" John yelled, " _Fuck yes_ it matters _,_ Sherlock!!"

" _Why_?!" Sherlock glared at the doctor, trying to keep the bubbling emotions from showing on his face. "Why do you even _pretend_ to care?"

"I _care!!_ " John swallowed. "I care, Sherlock, I-" there was a flash of _something_ there, and John cut himself off. Sherlock tried to sit up a bit. John glared at him for it.

"You _what_?"

"I care." John lied lamely. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him.

"Like you care for _Jessica?_ " He asked, "I must say, you care very _loudly_."

"Wha- oh." John blushed. "You heard that."

"Obviously." _Eye roll._

"Sorry." There was a moment of silence as John pondered the new information. "... did the whole... _hearing_ thing trigger... _this_?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes for real now. "For fuck's sake, John, you're a doctor. You could just ask me if you having sex triggered a drug relapse."

"Did it?"

"Yes."

John's mouth fell open in shock. " _Sherlock..._ " It sounded so pitying, so sad, that Sherlock had to turn away to not show the dear doctor the bloody pieces that were what was left of his heart.

"Don't do that." He whispered. "Don't. _Do._ That."

"Do what? Sherlock, talk to me."

"Don't... pretend you're not going to _leave_. Don't _pretend_ all will be all right, that we will go back to the flat and all will be okay. Just... Don't, please." _Like going down in a whirlpool, seeing the same branch pass time and time again, salvation just out of reach. Like seeing an enormous tornado pass by your house, watching from the window mesmerised, waiting for a cow or a house or a van to hit you in the head. Inevitable death without even a glimmer of hope._

"Sherlock." There was a hand against his cheekbone, turning his head towards him. "Come on, tell me what's going on in there."

Sherlock blinked. "The inevitability of nature." He blurted. John huffed an unexpected laugh.

"You git." John was sitting on the edge of the bed, now, for some reason, and was _very close_.

"We could be destroyed by a thunderstorm any moment." Sherlock swallowed and looked away.

"Better make the best of it, then." John was so close, Sherlock could smell stale coffee on his breath, could nearly feel the warmth.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock closed his eyes, leaned back. _Get away from the temptation_. "Hmmm?"

"Jessica and I broke up last night."

 _So? You'll find someone new to run away with, eventually._ "Sorry."

"Don't be. She said I should _just leave that freak alone, he'll live, fucking druggie._ I told her to fuck off."

"Didn't have to."

"I- yes." Two hands were gripping his face now, tightly. " _Yes_ , I had to. Because - _fuck it_ , Sherlock, you come first. Before anyone. _Fuck,_ she could've been my _fiancée_ and I'd tell her the same!"

Sherlock swallowed. _No you wouldn't no you don't shut up you're wrong it's wrong lies lies lies don't show him you believe him-_

"Oh, _Sherlock_." There was the briefest of touches to his forehead, but of what? John's hands were still on his face. " _Oh, Sherlock_." Another touch. "It's okay, it's all fine, you can let go, now. Go on..."

An ugly, unwanted _sob_ made its way out of his throat, and suddenly Sherlock realised his face was already wet. Horrified, he tried to pull away, but the hands held on, clutched to his face. _A buoy in the middle of the storm_.

"Shh, that's it, get it all out, that's it..." The hands wrapped around his back, held him tightly and rocked him gently, stupid nothings being whispered in his ears.

"I-" Sherlock sniffed. _Now or never. He's going to ask questions, anyway._

Clumsily, he moved his head to the side a little bit, a little bit to the front, and smashed their lips together.

John inhaled sharply.

Pulled Sherlock closer. Moved his hands to those curls.

_Kissed back._

(Supernovae are created when two stars clash together; they flare bright for the briefest of moments before dying out for eternity. In that moment, they burn as bright as several suns, maybe, before it is all over. Enough in that moment to last lifetimes.)

"We're not supernovae." Sherlock gasped, pulling away to look the doctor - _his_ doctor?- in the eyes. "We're not - right?"

John frowned. "No." He said, voice full of wonder. "We aren't." He smiled, and _that_ , Sherlock realised, _that is. That is a supernova, and the brightest one in history, probably, too._ He swallowed. _Please let me see it every day for the rest of my life._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!! Please tell me what you thought, I'd love to hear it! :)  
> if you have a suggestion for a story or a prompt, let me know, in the comments or on [my tumblr!](blazeriddle.tumblr.com/ask)


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